Marguerite Ninian sat on her favourite smooth, flat stone and gazed downriver. The weather was bitter, but she’d rather be here, in her favourite place, than back at the house. No doubt everyone believed she was still in bed, listening to her sister’s soft snores as Chloë dreamed of elegant dresses and a ballroom somewhere in London.
But Marguerite had woken early as usual and it was boring lying in bed, gazing at the ceiling, waiting for Chloe to waken. Marguerite had had her fill of lying still in bed as various surgeons and doctors employed by her mother poked and prodded at her bad leg. Charlatans. As if her leg could be “cured.”
She’d discovered years ago that seventy roosters would not wake Chloë until Chloë was ready to wake. And Mama never came downstairs till eleven, so if Marguerite escaped early enough, she was free to do what she liked best. Free to roam alone over the farmland adjoining her father’s small estate.
This morning she had brushed the snow off her rock so she could sit and watch the Avon flow through Corrigan’s lands and across a corner of the Trewbridge estate. Slivers of ice had slowed the flow to a trickle. The sun was doing its pale best, but the February weather was sharp and biting.
The thud of hoof-beats roused her from her reverie. Oh dear. She was not precisely on Trewbridge land, but on an apex of land which abutted the Trewbridge and Corrigan estates. And Mr Berry had given her permission to be here—well, more or less.
The noise came nearer and she wriggled on her cold seat. She had never known anyone from Trewbridge to use the old bridle path before. They would choose today of all days. She’d wanted to stay here as long as possible because there wasn’t anywhere else to hide away from her father’s frightening cough, cough and the endless procession of morning visitors—‘Mama’s friends’ from the Grange and the rectory and further afield. They came in deference to Papa, sitting on the edge of their chairs, forced to listen to Mama’s monologues. Worst of all, they tried not to look at Marguerite as if ignoring her crippled leg made things better.
She sat up straighter and lifted her chin. If the rider from Trewbridge spoke to her, she would plead ignorance. But she doubted he’d notice her.
****
John gave the roan its head as he crossed Corrigan’s lower fields. It had been years since he’d used this old shortcut that took him to a lane leading to Fitzy’s. He was looking forward to seeing his best friend again. There was nobody like Fitzy for cutting a man down to size with exquisite politeness, but when the chips were down, Fitzy would be there, standing at your shoulder. He grinned as he thought how surprised Fitzy would be to see him.
Noting the uneven bogginess of the ground near the river, he pulled back on the reins. “Gently, boy,” he murmured. He leaned forward and rubbed a gloved hand down the horse’s neck. His father kept a good stable, but John missed Diabolo. He’d be glad when his friend, Colly Hetherington, brought Diabolo back to Trewbridge.
As he straightened in the saddle he glimpsed a flash of colour near the river bend. Curious, he urged his horse closer.
To his surprise a young woman was seated on a rock, gazing into the river. At first glance he presumed she was a local farmer’s daughter, but as he neared, he saw her clothing was that of a woman of quality. Perhaps she was the farm manager’s daughter. She must be hardy to be out in such inclement weather.
As he pulled up beside her, she turned her head and flicked him a glance. Then she returned her gaze to the river.
He doffed his beaver. “Good day, miss.”
She ignored him. Where loose tendrils of hair met the collar of her jacket, the exposed skin on her neck reddened. Ha! She had heard him, but for some reason didn’t want to talk to him.
John dismounted, holding fast to the reins. “As there is no-one here to introduce us, we had best introduce ourselves.” He smiled at the rigid line of her back. “I am John Trewbridge.”
Still she said nothing. John frowned. He did not expect people to fawn over him because of the Trewbridge name, but civility cost nothing. “And you are?” he asked.
With obvious reluctance she murmured, “I am Marguerite Ninian.” Again she flicked him a glance out of the corner of her eye then turned her attention back to the river.
His scar. She had seen his scar. Well, she couldn’t help but see it, could she? In spite of the way he had raised his coat collar as high as it would go, that ugly, pink, puckered knot of skin still showed down the side of his face. That was why she would not face him. Something inside him clenched and twisted. He told himself he had better get used to people recoiling from him. Even his own family had, at first, been unable to look him in the eye. Swallowing his pride, he pretended he had not noticed her distaste. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you must be Mr Berry’s daughter.”
She turned her head and smiled.
John blinked. She had an engaging smile.
“No, sir. Mr Berry has no children.”
“So...” John didn’t quite know how to continue. She sat there with queenly unconcern on her cold perch looking as if she owned the acreage surrounding her, yet he knew she did not. The last he’d heard, Corrigans had sold out to an absentee landlord. Was she the landlord’s daughter?
Soft, solemn brown eyes tracked over his face. This time she did not turn away. She had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen—apart from Serena’s of course. But Serena’s were green. This young lady’s eyes were deep with layers of secrets and dreams.
Her raiment was designed for a much larger person and she must have traipsed a long way over wet ground, for her skirts were streaked with mud. She had folded her cloak over the stone she sat on, and every now and again, in spite of her fur pelisse, a shiver shook her slight body. Her legs were pulled up beneath her, as a child would sit.
“This is a very damp place to sit in such inclement weather, Miss Ninian.”
“Oh, it is not such a bad day today. I come here nearly every day.”
Aha. Now perhaps he could find out what she was doing here.
“Every day? Why?”
“Nearly every day,” she corrected.
He ignored the correction. “But why, Miss Ninian?”
“To get out of everyone’s way.”
Lord, that was a facer. Did she mean it the way it sounded? “And Mr. Berry permits it?” He couldn’t help a trace of scepticism seeping into his words.
“He knows I don’t do any harm.” The cool defensive voice held the slightest hint of a Scottish burr that reminded him of his mother.
She had avoided a direct answer but anyway, it was none of his business. He bowed and prepared to remount. She had made it clear that his scar offended her and that she did not want his company. He had done his civil duty. Now he would make himself scarce. He bowed. “I shall leave you to your trespassing—”
“Excuse me, sir,” she broke in, “but are you not trespassing too?”
Wonderful. Not just rude, but argumentative. John felt his face heat up as he struggled to rein in his temper. “We, at least, have always had permission from the Corrigans, Miss Ninian.”
“But the Corrigans no longer—”
If she could interrupt, so could he. “I understand from your attitude that my scar offends you, so I shall take myself off. Good day to you, Miss Ninian.”
Damn. Somehow the words had come out wrong. If this was the reaction he was going to receive every time someone saw his scar, he’d better grow himself another skin.
She flushed and muttered something under her breath. It sounded like “dolt.” Refusing to meet his eyes, she scrambled to her feet and bent over to gather up her cloak. He was presented with a delectable round rear, and before she flicked the cloak around herself he caught a glimpse of a neatly proportioned body—a very desirable little pocket Venus.
“I am the last person to worry about your scar,” she snarled. “I simply prefer to be alone.”
Then he understood and cringed in self-disgust.
As she limped down off the rock, her body sank low on one side. His pocket Venus was a cripple. One leg was much shorter than the other. Here was the owner of this morning’s footprints in the snow.
She turned around for a last salvo. “I hope you are happy now you’ve driven me out of my favourite place.” After which inflammatory speech she flounced off. As she swivelled, her bad leg slid out from under her and down she went on to her backside in the mud, landing with a loud thud.
“Ow!” She rubbed her bottom.
John’s fingers itched to assist her. He dropped his horse’s reins and raced over to her, but she was already scrambling to her feet.
“Look what you’ve done, you big oaf!”
“I wasn’t anywhere near you!” John protested.
“Oh...be quiet.” White, tightened lips showed her determination not to cry.
John’s heart twisted within him. “Are you hurt?”
“No!”
He hesitated. She might be hurt, but she would never admit it. He was good at that too, he thought wryly.
His horse, scenting freedom and frightened of Miss Ninian’s angry voice, began to edge away. John grabbed at the thoroughbred’s dangling reins. The leather slid through his gloved fingers; then there was only air. “Blast it all!”
But the horse had not reckoned on John’s Peninsular experiences. As it gathered itself together ready to bolt, John threw himself at its flank. He managed to grab the edge of the saddle. Praying the cinch would hold, he levered himself up, inch by excruciating inch. Ignominiously he straddled the horse face down, hauling on one rein. Surprised, the horse found itself turning in a circle.
John set his teeth and slowly righted himself. His wound gnawed and burned as if he had plunged it into a fire. Damn all women to hell. The world would be a better place without them. He swallowed the words and headed back to where Miss Ninian, mouth open, stood watching.
As soon as she saw he was safe, she stomped off. Her gait might be laboured but she seemed determined to put as much distance between the two of them as possible. In spite of the agony burning a fire trail down his neck, John almost grinned. She was plucky, but the muddy ground sucked at her boots and her damp skirts twined themselves around her legs like parasitic vines on an ash tree. He was riding a horse. She was lame. How on earth did she think she was going to escape?
“Go away,” she snarled as he drew level with her. Her dignity was impaired when she tripped over the dangling hem of her cloak. He leaned down and snagged the hood, holding her upright.
“Listen here,” John said in the tones of a reasonable man goaded beyond endurance, “I nearly lost my horse because of you. I’m just trying to be civil.”
“Civil? Heaven help us when you are being uncivil!”
It was too much. John’s temper bubbled over and scorched the air between them. “You stupid little ninny! You could be badly injured out here on your own. How long would it take before your people missed you? Two hours? Three? What if it came on to snow again?” he demanded.
She glanced up at the clear sky and rolled her eyes. Then she turned away and mumbled, “That would be a blessing.” Most likely she had intended the comment for herself only, but with his over-sensitive hearing he heard her. He tried to bite back his retort. He really did. He understood her wish for solitude and he admired her pluck, but when she had turned away from his face in revulsion giving him a foretaste of what to expect in future, something inside him had howled with anger. “Hah! We’re feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?” he gibed.
Her head bowed, she said nothing.
“Let me tell you, madam, that I’ve seen men bite their tongues right through rather than cry out as they faced an army surgeon wielding a knife. And then seen those same men attempt to use the painful stumps of their limbs only days later. As for the poor horses...” He winced and took a deep breath, struggling for control. “I’m sorry, but a spoiled young lady who wishes to die because she has a slight limp incenses me. Good day, madam.”
As he wheeled his horse he caught a glimpse of wounded brown eyes in a white face. Damn his impatient tongue. He hesitated, then turned back. “I shall take you home. Here. Put your good foot on mine and I’ll pull you up,” he said gruffly.
She did not flinch from the horse but said, “I cannot ride.”
“You don’t have to. All you have to do is sit there. I’ll do the rest.” He held out his hand. Miss Ninian stared at it as if he were offering her a vial of poison. He sighed, bent down and dragged her up by her clothing. Nothing ripped which was fortunate, since her clothes had seen better days. She must be the recipient of hand-me-downs.
When he settled her in front of him she let out a small “umph,” and clung, white-knuckled, to the pommel as the horse began to pick its way along the muddy riverbank.
“In which direction is your home?”
She lifted an arm to point, then hastily grabbed the pommel again. He pulled her close against his body, keeping her secure. A strange rigidity attacked both of them.
John swallowed. His Adam’s Apple was choking him. Lord, she fit against him as if she had been born just to complete him. For a moment his eyes drifted shut, then they snapped open. Rubbish. He’d been away from female company too long. “Do you mean the manor house in the distance, or the one to the right beside the stand of poplars?”
“To the right,” she said. Her voice sounded muffled, as if she had buried her chin on her chest.
John sucked in his breath when the roan jolted over rough ground and Miss Ninian rubbed against a part of his anatomy that was causing as much pain as his wound. He tightened his grip on the reins and a soft breast bounced against his inner arm. Lord, that felt good. Much too good. He was going to ache for hours. Thank God it was a cold day.
An eternity later they reached the stand of poplars that separated Corrigan’s land from the Ninian estate. By unspoken mutual consent John halted the horse out of sight of the house. He dismounted and lifted her down, resisting the urge to hold her against his body. Indeed, he set her well back from himself as if he were shoving away a discarded package. He bowed. “Thank you, Miss Ninian, for a most instructive morning.”
He remounted, and resisting the urge to look back, rode towards Fitzy’s house to safe, unseductive company.